She Dreams in Whiskey
by Madlib
Summary: AU-ish story about the beginnings of the great Rayna Jaymes.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote this several months ago and recently re-discovered it lurking on my laptop. It's a bit, well, _happy_ for my tastes, and considering what we've learned so far this season it's officially AU now. Probably a one-shot, but I can't promise I won't write more if the muse strikes. As always, nothing is mine.

* * *

She is 16 the first time she tries whiskey. The first sip shocks her – the burn bitter in the back of her throat – but as the pleasant warmth spreads through her belly she finds herself going for another sip, and another, until the unpleasantness in her mind is replaced with a gentle buzzing and the edges of her world have become a bit blurry.

Two days ago, her father kicked Rayna out of the house. After proudly announcing that she had cut a demo with none other than Watty White, Lamar exploded in a fit of rage. When words became weapons and she accused him of never loving her mother, his eerie silence hung over her like a cloud, stunning her almost as much as the ultimatum which followed; if she is to continue living under his roof, she must live by his rules. Neither of them realized the implications of the threat until it was too late to be taken back - he is a proud man and his hatred for Watty runs deep. Wordlessly turning her back, she slipped back upstairs, letting him think the battle was won. She didn't talk to him again for the rest of the night, letting him get up the next day to find that she has left, taking only her suitcases, a majority of her clothes, and her guitar - her mother's guitar. There was no note, nor was there any need for one; they both know there is no turning back from this.

In the early morning light she sneaks to a pay phone and calls Watty, pushing down the fear welling up inside of her as she waits for his truck to come around the bend. She feels vulnerable and very, very alone as she settles onto Watty's couch for the night and thinks, "This is what it feels like to live your dream."

Watty just smiles at her and says, "You got it, kid. You're going to be huge." She is young and naïve enough to believe him.

The next day, Watty makes her eggs and drives her to his office where they hatch a plan. He gives her a couple hundred dollars to 'tide her over' and tells her to get a hotel room while he makes some calls. "Tell 'em you're 18," he cautions as she's halfway out the door. By the time she has returned he's lined up a paying gig for the next night, a piddly little bar on the outskirts of town. She couldn't be more excited. He tells her he'll line up backup musicians and she doesn't realize how far he's bending over backwards for her until she overhears part of a conversation he didn't intend for her to hear.

"I know Deacon," he says into the receiver, "but it's only one night. She's just a kid, alone, out on the streets. Just play one night with her. She's the real deal, I swear." She scurries away from the door and makes herself busy until he cheerily calls out that rehearsal is set for 1:00 pm and everyone is on board.

She arrives at the studio half an hour early, eager and ready to meet the band and play; after all, music is the only thing that helps her relax. Watty is already there and waves over his shoulder, talking to a dark-haired man with a guitar on his shoulder. They both turn to face her and she smiles through her nervousness.

"Rayna Wyatt, Deacon Claybourne." She extends her hand, the way she's done countless times at her father's country club, but the hand that meets hers isn't anything like what she's used to. He grips her hand hard, hard enough she can feel the callouses on his fingers, and she smiles at him. She looks at his face and realizes he can't be much older than she is.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he drawls and his formality makes her giggle even though he has a slight scowl on his face that belies his pleasure at being there.

"Likewise," she replies before turning to Watty. "And it's Jaymes. Rayna Jaymes. I don't want anything to do with Daddy anymore." She sees his eyes soften at the name, and he nods in understanding.

"Deacon will be playing with you tonight," Watty explains. She wonders if there is a 'rest of the band' or if it's just the two of them. Her question is answered when Deacon takes his place and starts tuning up. "Found him playing over at the Bluebird a few months back,"Watty explains. "He'll be a good fit for your sound."

She takes her place at the microphone, her first real rehearsal for her first real gig.

* * *

That night while settling down in her cheap motel room, she finally calls her sister at Vanderbilt.

"Rayna?" she is practically hysterical. "Where the hell are you? Daddy told me you ran away."

"Oh come on," Rayna protests, "I didn't run away, I'm not 10 years old. He kicked me out," she explains. She tells Tandy where she is and firmly turns down her sister's order that she leave the motel and either go home or at least come to her on-campus apartment.

"What about school?" Tandy asks, and Rayna goes quiet.

"What about it?" she finally replies. "I was never much good at it anyway." She hears Tandy preparing her argument, how she has to go back home and stay in school. Graduate and go to college, find a husband, a sensible career.

"Tandy," Rayna beats her to it. "This is what I am meant to do. I have to follow this, it's the only thing that makes me feel alive. It's the only way I remember Mom. It's the only way I know how to be."

"Rayna…" Tandy trails off. She's been the glue between her little sister and father for the four years since their mother died, and she understands Rayna in a way their father never will. Finally she asks, "Where's your gig? I'm coming." Rayna smiles and gives her the address.

* * *

The bar is dingy and smoky, the gravel parking lot filled with old pickup trucks. The stage is tiny in the far corner of the room, and the dance floor is wide and empty. She's early, so she is surprised to see Deacon already there, sitting at the bar. She walks up and takes the stool next to him.

"Funny meeting you here," she says, and she notices he's drinking something that does not look like Coke. He smiles at her, the first genuine smile she's seen on his face.

"Didn't know if you were going to show up," he says with a grin. "You nervous?"

She gives him half a nod. "How long you been playing?" she asks.

"Couple years. I moved out here when I was 17," he explains without elaborating, and she can tell he doesn't want her to ask more questions. They sit in silence and she wonders how Deacon got his drink, but when the bartender comes by, she just orders water. They've been sitting in an ever-increasingly awkward silence when her sister arrives in a flurry of expensive perfume. Deacon raises his eyebrow at her, shakes Tandy's hand and excuses himself to set up.

The hubbub of the crowd doesn't really die down as they get ready for their set, and almost no one turns as the club owner announces them. A few people dancing look annoyed that the music has been turned off and turn to leave for their tables. Rayna looks around the room nervously and sees Watty off to the side of the stage and her sister at a table in the back. She can do this, she keeps telling herself.

And then Deacon starts playing, and the ball of nerves in her stomach turn to the adrenaline which drives her. She sings like she's never sung before, feeling more alive and connected than she has in months. She catches Deacon's eye a few times and his smile is reassuring. And while most of the patrons seem to have gone about their business of dancing and drinking without paying much attention to them, by the end of their set there is a small crowd gathered around the foot of the stage. There's applause, and bright lights, and she knows this is what she has been born to do.

After their set, once the faint applause is gone and they've packed up, after Tandy has fawned appropriately and Watty has offered his congratulations and a wad of cash that is both more and less money than she ever thought she'd earn playing music, Deacon asks if she wants to stick around for a drink. She really doesn't want to go back to her motel anyway, it makes her angry and lonely thinking about her father and his lack of support for her. There is another act coming on stage, and he thinks it would be good for her to stay and watch. She nervously says yes. He goes to the bar and comes back with two whiskies on ice. She nervously takes one.

"First time?" he asks with a smile. He doesn't wait for her response. "Take it slow," he recommends. And she takes her first sip.

Two hours later she is drunk for the first time in her life. Turns out Deacon knows the bartender and even though she's probably only had three drinks, everything in her world is a little fuzzy and the room seems to be rotating on a tilted axis whenever she turns her head. When she leans over his arm and tells him to order another, Deacon smiles at her and says, "Let's get you home." Without a car, she had to take a bus to get here, so he offers to drive her back to her motel. She doesn't even stop to wonder if he should be driving, she just gets in the cab of his truck.

* * *

"You ok on your own?" he asks as he pulls up in front of her room, and she leans on the open window of his truck to assure him that she is. "Tomorrow we'll be even better," he jokes and she looks at him in confusion.

"Tomorrow?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, "They asked us to come back."

"And we said yes?"

"Watty took the liberty of accepting for you," he explains.

"And you're coming, too?"

"I am."

She breaks into gleeful laughter, reeling from more than just the effects of the alcohol. Pulling herself together, she walks carefully to her room, but not before noticing that he doesn't pull away until she's safely inside.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Another hard drive lurker, edited slightly to mesh with the first chapter. I originally wrote this to explore Rayna's weakness when it comes to men, but upon re-reading realized it actually fits well with what we've seen about Deacon's history, too. In any case, I'd say the chance of continuation is about 50/50 at this point, seeing as there are no specific ideas niggling my subconsious. But hey, never say never. Please be forgiving, as my beta is on vacation and I was worried if I waited for her return, this would fall back between the couch cushions. As always, they're not mine, blah blah blah.

* * *

The bar is dark and smoky as they finish their set, but as the home of their first regular gig it somehow feels warm and familiar. The room may be half-empty as they take the stage every Sunday night, but the bartenders know them and slip them shots even though they're both underage. They even have some fans, or maybe they're just regulars at the bar, but at least now they look up from their drinks long enough to acknowledge the music.

A six months ago when Watty asked Deacon if he would accompany Rayna at her very first gig, he had rolled his eyes at the mere thought of standing behind the Belle Meade teenage princess. But he'd owed Watty a favor, so he showed up. Much to his surprise, she was funny and strong and talented beyond her years. As he's gotten to know her, really know her, he can see how much passion and fire lurk just below her façade - too much, sometimes. But even if she makes him want to rip his hair out more often than not, she is always surprising him.

Like tonight, when she disappears out the back service door with a guy in too-pressed Wranglers who's been in the front row for their set the past three Sundays. Deacon knows she is doing her best to hide it from him and wonders if she has sensed the way the air around them has changed the past several weeks. Or maybe, he thinks, she just knows that Watty asked him to watch out for her and wants to avoid a confrontation.

He swallows the pang of jealousy that rises quickly in his throat and keeps an eye on the hallway that leads to the alley, waiting for them return flush-faced and wild-eyed. He knows what they're getting up to back there, but he's not one to judge; he's been known to take home a pretty blonde, himself. Besides, they're not usually back there long enough that he's too worried.

But today the guy comes back alone, clearly upset, one side of his face bright red. He seems to be in a hurry, throwing some cash on the bar and making a hasty exit. When Rayna doesn't reappear after him, Deacon gets even more suspicious and makes his own way toward the back alley.

He finds her sitting on the cracked concrete of the back steps, crying into her hands and looking every bit the 17-year-old that she is. He clears his throat to make his presence known, shuffling his feet awkwardly. She bristles before she turns, pulling her jacket closer around her. When she sees it is him, she sighs; he clearly isn't who she expected.

"Go away," she says flatly, facing the alley again.

"What's up Ray?" he asks. "Saw your boyfriend come back alone and wondered where you were."

"He's not my boyfriend," she answers, her voice breaking a little, but her demeanor steady. She seems determined to keep it together. "He's not anything. He's a jerk."

"Sorry to hear it didn't work out," he says insincerely, taking a seat on the concrete step next to her. She turns her face away from him, and her jacket falls open to reveal a tear in the fabric of her shirt, which appears to be missing a few buttons. She hastily wraps her jacket tighter as his eyes widen in realization. "Ray," he starts, not even knowing how to put his thoughts into words. "Did he...did he _hurt_ you?" Deacon finally asks in concern.

"What do you care?" she asks, turning toward him. "Just go back inside."

"Did he…?" Deacon can't ask the question that comes next. Realization dawns on her and she finally turns towards him in fury. "God! No!" she exclaims, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. But then, more softly she adds, "He tried. I slapped him and he went away."

Deacon is furious now. "Damn it Rayna, I'm going to kill him!" Deacon stands up and starts to go back inside, to find the punk and kick his ass, but is stopped by Rayna's hand on his arm.

"No, Deacon. It's fine, seriously. He's gone. I'm fine, I swear." He rakes his hands through his hair in frustration, fueled by three whiskey shots and a desire to punch someone. He paces a few steps and then turns his anger on her.

"What the hell were you thinking, disappearing down a dark alley with a stranger?!" he yells.

"I thought he was nice," she replies quietly, not able to meet his eyes. He sees in that moment how young she is, how vulnerable and innocent; suddenly his anger vanishes and all he wants is to protect her. Sitting by her again, his hand finds its way to her back.

"I know you did," he says earnestly, and she seems surprised by the compassion in his voice.

"Why are they like that?" she finally asks.

"Like what?" he replies, but she is quiet for a long moment and he realizes she isn't going to respond. Finally, he leans his shoulder into hers.

"Maybe you're just picking the wrong type of guy."

"Like who? Don't tell me to go date those country-club boys my daddy always wanted to see me with," she laughs bitterly. He chuckles, imagining the preppy, rich teenage CEO wanna-be's in their Range Rovers and Porsches.

"Nah," he answers. "I'm just talking about finding someone who respects you and cares about you."

She starts to roll her eyes, but before she can register what has happened he leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. She pulls back in surprise.

"What the hell, Deacon?" Her tone is angry, but he realizes she is smiling.

"I respect you, and I care about you," he says seriously before leaning in again, not sure if he'll be the second victim of one of her slaps tonight. But her lips are soft against his as she melts into him, and he knows in this moment that he never wants to stop kissing her. He feels her pull back slightly, her hand on his face.

"Deacon, I'm not sleeping with you," she says with a laugh.

He smiles against her mouth. "Darlin', who said anything about sleeping?"

She punches him gently on the arm before kissing him again.


End file.
